Aerith looks like she could use an excuse to escape Yuffie's mania, Tifa notes as she goes to set the newly dried glass down. Besides, the two of them can shoot the breeze while Tifa waits for—
She blinks.
The comforting chatter in the tavern goes abruptly silent, replaced by the quiet creaking of the front door swinging open.
Tifa glances up. Her friends are gone. A familiar figure stands still in the doorway.
Cloud is instantly caught up in Tifa's eyes. He feels...warm.
Tifa wonders why he isn't stepping up to her, laying soothing hands on her and kissing her reverently, like he always does. Then she wonders why she isn't going to meet him with a welcoming smile and strong embrace, like she always does.
Something isn't right. Where did everyone go?
"Cloud?" she tries hesitantly—there's nothing else to say, really.
"Tifa." She never thought that she would hear worlds and lifetimes in her name, but there is all that and more on the current of his voice as it winds around those two small syllables.
Cloud can read the confusion on her face, the uncertainty. He glances around, allowing himself a brief moment to marvel at this place that she has been locked away in, but her perplexed expression his eyes back eventually.
His mind races. He doesn't know what to do or say. There is so much on the tip of his tongue, but nothing is right—not here, not with her like this. She isn't lucid. She isn't with him. She's lost. And somehow he knows: this is an extraordinary dream—it will continue to draw them inward if they linger. Already, he wonders if he'll blink and find himself swept away by the shades of his mind, carried off to confront more of his demons. If this place has any rules, they are meant to be broken; any governance, it is chaos. Every second wasted is a gamble. The knowledge sets him on edge, toying with the mako in his blood that clues him in to the nature of this detour from reality. He isn't even sure that there is a way to escape, but he and Tifa have emerged from the Lifestream once before, and this does not feel significantly different. For all he knows, it could be very much the same.
But she had to bring him back to himself before they could leave. And now, he must do the same for her. He needs her with him, awake, present.
That realization sends him striding across the floor, cutting away at the distance between them until there is none. Cloud plants his hands on her shoulders and peers at her beseechingly.
"Tifa," he says again—her name still feels strange, even now. "Come back."
The words are so ardent that Tifa begins to feel a bit concerned, but she forces out a strained laugh in the face of Cloud's severity. He looks earnest, bordering on wild.
"What do you mean?" she asks. "I'm right here."
He shakes his head in staccato jerks. "No. Come back. Wake up."
She drops the pretense of levity and allows her worry to show, torn between falling back a step and drifting closer to him. "Cloud, are you feeling okay? You're not making any sense."
Cloud can see that Tifa is starting to get a bit freaked out, but he's too desperate to care. She seems so far away, despite the fact that she is solid under his hands; those hands slide up cradle her jaw, his thumbs framing her cheekbones.
"Tifa, I—" He inhales harshly, both a final barricade and fuel for the leap. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm here, now, with you, and I need you to come back to me. I need you to wake up because I'm finally here. Come back."
He sounds like a broken record that skips and repeats, but those are the only words he can conjure. His eyes dart back and forth between hers, feeling the embers in those impossible depths warm him to the core. He searches for any spark of recognition or realization. Seconds tick by with a supernatural longevity that strains his composure.
The confusion in her thaws into hazy awareness. It's a slow fade, one that he watches intently.
Finally, Tifa's expression wavers, crumbles. Tears bloom quickly in her eyes and one spills over onto his thumb, warm with the heat of so much hurt.
"But—why?" she whispers brokenly. He hears her.
Why should I come back?
Cloud cannot help but pull her into his arms, clutching at her tightly with the first stirrings of relief and burying his face in her hair. He doesn't have a reason for her—not yet—and all he can do is repeat his pleading anthem.
"Please. Tifa. Wake up."
He closes his eyes.
Tifa blinks. More tears cascade down her face and sink into the fabric of Cloud's shirt. She allows the memories to flood back, to batter the walls of the bar until the beams groan and the windows shatter. The sound of splitting wood layers itself warningly under the cadence of Cloud's voice.
"I feel...exhausted," she argues weakly, though she knows her choice is already made.
"I know," he tells her. "I'm here."
And for Tifa, that's enough.
Cloud opens his eyes to the twinkling chime of cracks spiderwebbing across glass.
No, not glass.
He darts up to his feet and whirls, searching the block of crystal containing Tifa. After a few moments, he spots it. Toward the base of the formation, hairline fissures are crawling along the surface of the stone. They grow in breadth as they ascend, until small pieces begin to break away and splinter on the ground like raindrops. The whispers soon evolve into a blaring symphony as the degeneration accelerates, and Cloud watches in fixated stillness. All too soon, the pillar is rapidly melting away in a sea of shards no bigger than the tip of his finger, and he lunges forward, into the deluge.
His arms catch Tifa before she can collapse into the tide of crystals that slides over his boots and cushions his knees as they slam downward. The last tiny fragments fall around them, glancing off his hair and her face.
He stares down at her.
She's still paler than he would like, but her breathing is deep and even. Her skin is warm and when he presses his fingertips to her neck, a discernible pulse beats back against him. The wound in her shoulder, newly freed from stasis, leaks fresh blood; he casts a quick healing spell to staunch the flow, but a potion will be better for restoring the blood she's already lost. Cloud takes a moment to watch her, to see if she'll open her eyes, but she remains still. That's okay; somehow, he knows that she will wake up because she came back. She'll wake up and they will finally talk. The words will come—probably not easily, but they'll come.
Cloud finally sighs out the tension that has locked up his muscles ever since Vincent's arrival at his door.
He stands and adjusts Tifa in his arms, maneuvering her so that her head rests on his shoulder—her neck will be sore, otherwise. Despite the weariness in his limbs, her weight is too comfortable to be a bother. The disturbance of the pillar's collapse has stirred up a billowing fog of settling dust that is probably unsafe to inhale, so Cloud quickly moves toward the exit.
Crystal wreckage crunches under his boots as he leaves.
Awareness returns to Tifa in meandering bits—a piece of a sound, the sensation of soft warmth—that take their time in orienting themselves properly. Memory, however, proves to be tricky. As soon as her senses are functioning once more, she opens her eyes and realizes after a few confused moments that she's in the modest inn of Nibelheim. She identifies the familiar scent of baked cinnamon bread from the little shop next door and the wall that she's staring at is plastered with the hideous burnt orange that she has only ever encountered here. For some reason, it is quite popular among the residents of Nibelheim.
That's right, she remembers. The group is taking a break to rest up and stock up before going to investigate the Shinra mansion on the edge of town. She came up here to take a nap while Aerith and Barret go shopping for supplies. As soon as they get back, hopefully everyone can converge and get some answers about what the hell is going on—
But wait…doesn't she already know? Shinra rebuilt the town and is paying people to live here as if nothing happened; on top of that, the place is crawling with mysterious figures in black cloaks.
No…not mysterious. They're Sephiroth clones—Hojo claimed them as his experiments when they went to the Northern Crater—
Oh, Shiva.
The timeline trickles back in what starts as a slight stream but quickly morphs into a roaring rush.
Black materia.
Sephiroth.
Jenova.
Holy.
Meteor.
Cloud—Mideel—the Lifestream.
A rocket—a submarine—Midgar.
The Northern Crater—Sephiroth—Aerith.
Tifa shoots upright in the bed she has been tucked into. She inhales a ragged gasp that proves to be too much for her dry throat and a painful coughing fit has her doubling over.
"Whoa—Tifa!"
Her eyes widen at that voice, even as they water at the irritation in her chest. Why is she so parched?
Gongaga—the kids—a cavern.
"Hey—drink this. C'mon."
A broad hand lands firmly on her back. Through the shroud of her hair, Tifa spots a glass of water and takes it. She drinks in small, careful sips until her throat is soothed and her breathing steadies.
The hand on her back moves in pleasant circles that seem to sink into her, centering her wayward thoughts.
Tifa pushes her hair from her face and reluctantly looks up.
Her eyes widen.
Cloud sits on the edge of the bed. His hand retracts jerkily when his eyes meet hers, but he continues to stare down at her with careful concern. That observation alone nearly sends Tifa reeling again.
But it also proves that the most recent portion of her recollection wasn't a dream—at least, not in the traditional sense. Her heart sinks as the final fragments of her scattered life fall back into place.
She was stuck in a loop and didn't even realize it. It was…fine, Tifa supposes; the fleeting mirage had to be at least somewhat fulfilling, if she managed to remain oblivious to the strangeness of it. However briefly, she got to glimpse a vision of everyone she cared for safe, happy, and together. Her grief and guilt were gone, as if they had been drawn out of her in order to fabricate the crystal that she'd been hidden away in. But it wasn't perfect. There was someone missing. And every time she got close to finally being with him, the illusion reset. She reset. Maybe that's what Sephiroth wanted—for her to waste away in that prison, unable to live or die, eternally held back from reuniting with her loved ones. She would merely look in on a happy existence from afar, locked behind the barricade of a bar top, and she would never be able to identify what was achingly missing.
Cloud was always just out of reach.
Until he suddenly wasn't.
"Come back to me."
"Wake up."
"I'm here."
"Come back."
Tifa wonders if it was his realness that got through to her, if something within her recognized the authenticity of him compared to the shades that populated her made-up world. Or perhaps it was merely the shock of seeing him at all. Whatever the mechanism of action, the end result is undeniable. Cloud called her back from her exile, and now he is here, looking at her with a softness that seems too good to be true. The fact that he came for her at all is too good to be true. Is she still locked away, dreaming? Belief and disbelief tug her in opposite directions, trading the upper hand as her thoughts whirl.
"Hey," he says quietly.
Tifa swallows. "Hey."
"How are you feeling?"
"Alright."
He nods and reaches for something on the quaint night table next to the bed. Tifa realizes it's a remote when he points it at the television across the room to power it off—there's a plush armchair over by the window and she infers that he was watching TV while waiting for her to wake up.
Cloud has always been a fan of movies, she recalls. He used to watch them when they were travelling, if the inns had televisions in the suites. Bits and pieces of memories flit by, images of late nights when the two of them would camp out with whatever film happened to be on, content to use each other to ignore the insomnia keeping sleep at bay. Tifa thinks of quiet chuckles at cheesy lines, splitting stale jerky as a poor substitute for theater popcorn, and one instance of waking up slumped against each other with matching blushes. Simple recollections they may seem, but she hides them deep within herself, along with so many similar pictures. They have sat unattended, fading; she has long since learned that visiting them only serves to augment her loneliness. Thinking about Cloud in any capacity only ever hurts.
Why is he here, in the town that holds nothing but traumatic memories for him, playing sentinel for a person he loathes, casually watching a movie after dragging her out of a magical coma?
When Cloud sets the remote down and looks back at her, he must be able to read this question in her eyes. His shoulders deflate with a tired sigh and he rubs a hand over his face. Tifa notes the darkness beneath his eyes and the dust on his clothes; he looks like he's been stretched too thin, run too ragged.
She watches him drop his gaze down to the floor and clear his throat in obvious nervousness.
"I, uh…" He stops, tries again. "Look, I—I've got a lot that I want to say to you, so I'm just gonna try to say it all, okay?"
Objectively, those are terrifying words for Tifa to hear.
Please, let me wake up. I don't want to have this dream.
Cloud glances up at her from under his lashes. Despite her apprehension, she can't help but drink in the sight of him. There is a hazy edge of nostalgia clinging to the lines of his face, and newness in the shades of color that make him up. To her, he appears as a person that she hasn't seen in decades and got far too little time with before parting. Tifa nods numbly and he looks away again.
"I've spent the last two years so…angry at you for what happened that day. But I wasn't just angry with you—I was angry with myself. Except, I couldn't face that, and so I…redirected it onto you until I convinced myself that I hated you."
What is that supposed to mean, she wonders.
And she's suddenly sure—this is real. The colors are too bright, his voice too rich, her emotions too vibrant.
Tifa wants to run. She wishes desperately that she were anywhere else so that she wouldn't have to have the horrors of her life so plainly laid out before her. This is nothing that she hasn't known this whole time, but every word feels like a bullet. She can't see where he's going with this uncharacteristic monologue, but her capacity to care is quickly dwindling.
Cloud releases a bitter chuckle. "That seems to be what I'm best at—shutting away things I don't want to deal with until they turn into something completely different. But anyways…I guess what I'm trying to say is…I was wrong."
Wait...what?
The adrenaline in Tifa's veins simmers down, dimming the impulse to leap from the bed.
Cloud finally looks at her and Tifa is held transfixed by the myriad of emotions in his amazing eyes.
"I think part of me knew it all along, because I was—I was searching for you. For—I don't know, some sort of closure, I guess. And then, when I found you, I was forced to start…" He pauses to search for the word. "…separating, I think. I had to separate you from the version of you that I made up, the one who betrayed me. Eventually, I couldn't continue telling myself that you killed her—" Tifa flinches. "—and that's all that mattered. You were still Tifa, and that meant something.
"The truth is, I felt guilty," he admits in a strained murmur. Tifa can tell that the admission tastes bitter, that they seem to snag in his throat as he struggles to get them out. "I felt guilty because I couldn't do what Aerith asked me to. But it was easier to tell myself that she didn't have to die—and to blame you. I was selfish. And it's only recently that I've come to realize the burden that I put on you because I wasn't strong enough to do what needed to be done. Not only that, but I wasn't strong enough to deal with the aftermath."
She knows that if she had anymore tears to cry, she would be drowning in them. His words and the sincerity wrapped up in them nurture something so devastatingly damaged inside of her. This is the one thing that she has always refused to allow herself to imagine or hope for, because it has always seemed like such an impossibility—something more than the absence of hate—more than mere indifference. He's taking a step towards her, reaching down into the abyss she's dug for herself. However, she wishes dearly that he wouldn't try to bridge the gap between them in this manner—by taking all of the credit for the invisible destruction strewn around them. Nothing changes what she did, not even him.
Tifa knows that because she cares for him, she can't allow him to try to fix her. She can't drag him down with her, not when he deserves a shot at happiness more than anyone.
"You were never wrong to hate me," she whispers hoarsely, her voice fading in and out as her sore throat refuses to cooperate. "Even though it had to be done, I k-killed her."
Cloud's brow crumples in a curve of sorrow and he turns to lay his hand atop hers.
"Tifa." He wields her name imploringly. "When I—I mean—after the explosion, I spoke to Aerith. She said that the only person responsible for her death was herself. Not me, and not you."
The world stills and silence falls. Tifa struggles to subdue the wave of emotion that threatens to overtake her.
She can't allow him to try to fix her. She's too broken, too used to being alone, to the guilt of not only Aerith but of Wedge—Jessie—Biggs—every life she's taken directly or indirectly—every citizen killed in the bombings—every family destroyed by the plate collapse. She doesn't remember how to operate any other way.
But...
It's exactly what she has always known Aerith would say, though a weight deep within her shifts with the knowledge that those words were actually spoken. That weight eases up on her heart, giving it a bit more room to move, allowing it to awaken dormant parts of itself. Breathing becomes a bit easier.
But...
Tifa is at war with herself. There's a vicious battle raging between what she knows she has earned and what she knows that she wants.
Cloud shakes his head, looking so, so sad.
"It's my fault that things have gotten this bad," he tells her. "If I hadn't been so blind, I could have been there for you—like I promised. We could have…processed everything together. And I know that 'sorry' doesn't even begin to cover it, or make a difference, but…" He shrugs helplessly. "I'm sorry."
She can't allow him to try to fix her. She doesn't deserve it.
But dammit, she also can't keep herself from wanting it so badly, so completely, that her selfishness throws obligation out the window. She still doesn't agree with how he is absorbing the fault into himself, but the sudden sureness that Cloud doesn't loathe her anymore is too overwhelming, like a wave cresting above her head. It's too much—she'll save him from herself eventually, but for now, it's too much. And Tifa thinks that maybe she can give herself this small taste, just to look back on, just to keep her sane when she leaves him for his own good.
So she relents, crumples beneath the weight of his misplaced contrition.
That's when the damn breaks and Tifa dissolves into hysterical sobs.
And it feels so wonderful.
Her face falls into her palms. Cloud is predictably taken aback, but he hesitates for only a breath before he scoots closer and pulls her into him. Tifa cries harder as she leans against his solid form, breathing in the scent of dust and wind that clings to him; his hand resumes its track of soothing circles over her the shuddering expanse of her back and she feels his face press into her hair.
"I'm sorry," he's repeating—like it's a mantra over which he has no control. "I'm so sorry."
Time seems to stop around them as they remain in their little sphere. The tears gradually trickle to a halt as Tifa's crying settles into an occasional hitch in her breathing. Cloud's shirt is wet where it presses against her face, but she can't bring herself to care. Eventually, she peels herself off of him to rub at her eyes, which feel heavy and waterlogged. His arms slip away and he simply watches her with that same concern from earlier. She knows that she must look frightful—cheeks red from crying, tears smeared across her face, hair mussed from sleep. She wants a shower, and not just for physical reasons. She needs the space and time to process what the fuck just happened.
And then she'll take whatever he deems fit to give her. And then she'll leave. She can't allow him to try to fix her. He'll fail, and his failure will only hurt them both.
Oblivious to the armageddon he's ignited inside her, Cloud remains silent as a minute rolls by, and Tifa realizes that he is waiting for her to direct them from here. She can run or stay, talk or maintain silence, forgive him or condemn him.
So, Tifa simply clasps Cloud's hand in both of her own and raises it to her lips, which land lightly upon the ridges of his knuckles. Cloud watches the motion as if in a trance; he meets her eyes when she gives a gentle squeeze and then he smiles. It's small, almost as if by mistake, but it prompts Tifa's lips to mirror the expression so that he can feel it against his skin. She wonders if it feels as hollow to him as it does to her.
A/N: Hi :) I hope you're having a wonderful week. This chapter gave so much grief; I wrote it about a month ago, but when I re-read it for editing, I found myself in that situation where you know you have to make major changes, but you can't pinpoint what. I ended up shifting the direction of the story a tad bit, so we'll see where we end up now, haha. Thanks for reading!